Anecdote Love

Stories and Musings from a girl named Harvey

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Leslie’s Morning Part 1

So I am now attempting to write Leslie’s story somewhat chronologically.  This bit is nearish to the beginning and I obviously had a tearoom craving when I wrote it.  Written for Friday Fictioneers.

No cream.  Her small striped jug contained a speck.  It was a “C.C’s” morning Leslie decided and promptly went out.  Leslie first went to “C.C’s” because they advertised “a very nice cat”.  She continued to go because at “C.C’s” she found sunny nooks, a feline to snuggle, exquisite scones, and Devonshire cream for her morning tea.  Plus Mabel, the proprietor, was chatty.  Thus the sensible decision upon running out of cream was not the market, but “C.C’s”.  Upon approaching “C.C’s” on that drab morning Leslie noted an oddity. The purple sign with cream lettering was advertising “a very nice dog”.


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Beginning of the Story

Oh my goodness my story has a beginning !  And here it is the first paragraph to precede all those other paragraphs in Leslie’s ongoing adventures.  The beginning is inspired by this week’s Friday Fictioneers.  To read more of Leslie’s adventures you can check it out here

The front door to her small Victorian townhouse was green.  Leslie bought it for that door.  Forest green with stained glass panels of Art Nouveau flowers.  Green as the grass she read in as a child.  Green as her memories of travels and bruises. Green as his eyes and her heart.  Everyday opening the heavy creaking green redwood Leslie stepped into her blue parlor.  The picture rail holding nostalgic watercolors of now concrete vistas, bookshelves with pleasantly molding words, the yellow pinstripe armchair with a snugly ginger tom ensconced, smell of dahlias and lavender.  Until one day the door didn’t.


A tad about Gregory

This snippet in the unraveling tail of Leslie focuses on Gregory. That most ignominious of polymaths. Written for Trifecta: Week Ninety Six challenge.   This weeks word is animal third definition: a human being considered chiefly as physical or nonrational; also: this nature.   To read more of Leslie’s tails you can jump down the rabbit hole here:

“We’re going to join the warren.” Ed had smiled under his bushy eyebrows and rotting tophat.  “There’s nothing left for us to do here” added Mel in her soft velvet voice, smoothing her skirt.  Their lined faces had looked at him expectantly.  That was at least a century ago.

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V is for Vitroil


This story was written for the Weekly Writing Challenge: Dialogue.  It was inspired by a friends use of the word vitriol in a facebook post, which I considered elevating my facebook feed considerably.  I also hate grocery shopping, so there you go.

V is for Vitriol

Vitriol defined by Merriam Webster: something felt to resemble vitriol especially in caustic quality; especially :  virulence of feeling or of speech

“We can’t carry the eggs”
“They’re eggs.”
“Exactly, fragile.  They won’t make it five flights.”
Rick shot a glare at Meg and put the eggs back.
“You wanted vaulted ceilings” he muttered.

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S is for Sardonic (aka the Nudist Rock Band Story)


This installment of Alphabet Soup is inspired by the Daily Post Weekly Writing Challenge: Backward.  You can check it out here:      

Please be aware there’s a lot of cussing in this story.  If that’s not your thing this is not the story for you.


S is for Sardonic (aka the Nudist Rock Band Story)

Sardonic as defined by Merriam Webster: disdainfully or skeptically humorous : derisively mocking

So there she was by the Damen Blue Line stop, standing under her Louis Vuitton umbrella, in the rain, waiting for a cab.  Melrose decided to join her cokehead brother’s nudist rock band.  He said she had great tits.  A cab went by without stopping and splashed her Jimmy Choo’s.  Ruination.  It was the end of a not good day.

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Leslie Tills

Leslie was tilling her garden and heard a thunk.  She had hit a rectangle of rotting wood.   Pulling it up she gasped at a gas mask staring back at her.  Grabbing her trowel she started to unearth the mask.  Slowly the top half of a skeleton unveiled.

The bones gleamed white.   The top half wore: a red bowler hat with remaining brown curls of hair, a gray suit jacket with a red silk pocket handkerchief, a yellow and white shirt in small plaid, a black tie, and jet cuff links.  The skeleton was eccentric, well-mannered and familiar to her.

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100 Word Story Challenge

Leslie driving Tower, familiar.  Rainy window shows gray house in the wheat field.  Not there before.  She veers onto the shoulder.  Under yellow umbrella she approaches.  Charming dilapidation on red door.  She knocks, no reply, enters. Inside white wainscoting, empty picture rail, smell of lavender, worn pine floors, hat stand waiting for her umbrella.  Following lavender she enters a parlor, sees a portrait.  The man wears a red bowler hat, wisps of brown curls, stern jawline, soft smile, black gray eyes, curious.  Leslie determines to meet him.  In sunshine she returns to the wheat field.  Gray house not there.

Written for Friday Fictioneers.  Check it out here:





She leaned back and peered over her book at Timothy.  He wore a red sweater with yellow chevrons under his tweed jacket.  He didn’t match.  In fact Timothy never matched.

He was the sort of person who always wore two different colored socks.  As if it was beyond his comprehension to put on two black socks with matching shoes.  Thistle softly smiled at his peculiar shoelaces.  He was wearing blue shoelaces with maroon aglets. His shoelaces had been the first thing she noticed that day he came into the agency.  The day her chest tightened and her breath stilled.

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